


we rule the world

by shilu_ette



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-15 01:27:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4587816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shilu_ette/pseuds/shilu_ette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-atoryo. A fic in which Ryoma attends high school in Hyotei and they win the nationals. Atobe as captain and some snippy conversations between them with new revelations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we rule the world

A/N: A fic in which Ryoma is enrolled in Hyotei during high school and makes captaincy sound very lewd, not that Keigo minds. Pre-atoryo.  
(This is also a fic that was meant to be multi-chaptered, but I condensed one of the chapters down into an one-shot, so sorry if it reads a bit rushed! Will post this multi-chapter of Hyotei!Ryoma soon after my other works are done.)  
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The night after the Nationals, Atobe whisks them all off to his resort in the mountains and everyone gets spectacular drunk and bawdy. Ryoma briefly remembers Seigaku and its own version of victories that consisted of sushi and throwing up plates of wasabi. This was…it was new, Ryoma though, squished between a drunk redhaired senpai and another clingy one. It was similar in some ways, but it was still foreign, most of it. He was used to being smothered in hot and sticky tatami mats, not soft furry carpets. He’s not sure yet what he prefers. 

“Gakuto, you’re crushing him,” Shishido interjects from somewhere, and Ryoma is glad that at least one person is noticing his lack of personal space.  
He ear is warm from the air that Mukahi huffs and laughs, his breath full of the fruity wine he chugged earlier.  
“He can take it,” Mukahi drawls out, slowly and repeats it louder. “Fuck, he can take it, can't youuuuu, Echizen?” A hand comes down to ruffle his hair and Ryoma refrains from rolling his eyes. “Because you took on Yukimura and beat the fucking brains out of him—“  
“Which he also did in middle school,” Oshitari interrupts now, and tries to loosen the grip Mukahi has on Ryoma’s neck.  
“Yeah, yeah, which he also did in middle school, but that was for Seigaku,” Muhaki sneers and as if to rebel against Oshitari’s hands, he tightens his hold. Ryoma lets out a small choke. “This. This is different. Also, he was a little kiddie back then. He won by luck and some fancy moves.”  
“I—“ Ryoma tries to say, but he realizes he needs more air. He coughs again, and Oshitari yanks Mukahi with success this time.  
“Don’t go killing our prodigy, Gakuto,” he admonishes, and it’s mocking enough to make Ryoma half-glare at him. He rubs his neck gingerly. “He might still be needed for next years’ nationals.”  
Shishido hands Ryoma a cup of water, which Ryoma accepts gladly. “True though,” Shisido says with a rueful grin, when Ryoma turns to him. “You weren’t bulldozed by Yukimura today as you were back then. It was a good match.”  
Ryoma shrugs; unfazed and yet a little unnerved by all the goodwill the people around him were showing today. It must be the wine, he decides. Out loud, he says, “You’re all getting soft.”  
“Brat,” Shishido says without bite. He flicks Ryoma’s forehead lightly. “We’re supposed to be nice today. We won the nationals.”  
“The fucking nationals,” Gakuto parrots, and he attempts to headlock Ryoma again. He dodges this time and feels it safe enough to roll his eyes.  
“I know,” he says, standing up to get some more water, “I won it before, remember?”  
He walks towards the kitchen, hiding his smirk and ignoring the booing behind him.  
0  
0  
Atobe is there.

He is staring off into space, looking out the large kitchen window that oversees the mountain top view, although at night, the view is only pitch-dark and full of shadows. His eyes are unfocused and his hair limp; he hasn’t yet changed out of his school uniform. Ryoma walks closer to him and as he does so he speaks up.  
“Hey.”  
Atobe visibly starts, and Ryoma would have mocked Atobe about it, were it under different circumstances and Atobe was not his captain. He doesn’t though, only lets a small smirk creep into his face as he gestures to the fridge behind Atobe. “You’re kind of in the way.”  
Atobe schools his features into faux annoyance, as he huffs and step aside to let Ryoma access to his fridge. Ryoma sidesteps him; he notices, as Mukahi had so ungraciously mentioned moments before, that he had, in fact grown. Atobe had his own grown spurt, but Ryoma was almost as tall as Atobe now, as thin and lanky.  
“Look at you, ordering your captain around just because he won Singles One,” Atobe drawls, leaning against the counter. His earlier daze on his face was gone, and replaced with his usual haughtiness. “Aren’t you becoming cocky.”  
Ryoma ignores him until he rummages the fridge, sidestepping over various sausages, wine, cheese and variables of other meat until he finds what he was looking for. Satisfied with his findings, he yanks free a can of grape Ponta out of a six-pack and opens the cap. The soda hisses and he chugs it down before offering his own commentary.  
“You didn’t use the Ice World with Sanada.”

 

After all these months under Atobe and Hyotei, Ryoma still doesn’t know what to think of Atobe. Rivals, he thought, and thinks still. But Atobe was also the captain of the tennis club, and loathe as Ryoma was to admit it, Atobe had a genius for controlling and reigning over two hundred individuals in the tennis club, or, if he didn’t control them all individually, at least he made them unquestionably devoted to the Hyotei cause. It made his taunting harder, his earlier relationship with the older boy fade as the jibes and the sneering was replaced with more sulking and a muttering of “yes, captain” before anything else. Not that Ryoma called Atobe captain often. But to be fair to Atobe, Atobe didn’t call upon Ryoma’s silence and rudeness as Ryoma expected him to. His scowls were tolerated with much amusement and Atobe had never flaunted his authority to Ryoma as far as Ryoma can remember. 

 

The first time they met again, Kabaji had dragged him into the school council office on his first day before Ryoma even remembered that a certain Atobe Keigo also attended his new school, and Atobe was there, his hands clasped under his chin, his blue eyes full of cold mirth.  
“Well, well,” he drawled, “Look who we have here.”  
And it would have been the perfect villain scenario had Atobe smashed him and buried his body in god-knew-where, but Atobe had only shoved a piece of paper towards him and handed him a pen. It was the tennis club registration form.  
“I don’t play tennis,” Ryoma had said immediately back then.  
Atobe raised his eyebrows. “Oh? And what will you do, if you don’t play tennis? Attend tea ceremonies?”  
“I meant,” Ryoma said, with more disdain than was necessary, “I’m not playing tennis under you.” Kabaji had made a move towards him then, but Atobe waved him off with a small click of his tongue.  
“How amusing,” Atobe said, and he matched Ryoma’s disdain and tone, “Because I don’t recall I wanted to play any part of your tutelage. How we just jump to inane conclusions. Isn’t that right, Kabaji?”  
“Usu,” Kabaji replied firmly.  
“I’m not Tezuka,” Atobe continued on, “Maybe I just want our team to win and Hyotei has a desperate need of a new singles player. Have you ever thought of that?”  
Ryoma glared at him. His new tie was making him uncomfortable. “Maybe I want to play in Singles One,” he challenged.  
Atobe didn’t balk, as Ryoma expected him to. He gave him a sharp, amused smile and gestured to the paper in front of them. “If you’re worthy of that title, I have no qualms in giving it to you,” he said, “But you would need to beat me first.”

 

Atobe studies him now, his eyes lazily assessing Ryoma’s form that makes Ryoma want to twitch and move away. But he holds his ground, mostly because he had some questions tonight, more so because he never backed down from a challenge, least of all Atobe’s. So he held Atobe’s gaze until Atobe breaks it first with a smirk.  
“I know,” he says lightly, “It doesn’t work on him. He’d only unleash his Black Aura on me.”  
“And you don’t think you could return that?” Ryoma can’t help but mock.  
“I didn’t want to play a power match,” Atobe replies, sniffing, “Power is his forte and stamina is mine.”  
Silence falls after that. Atobe seems to have lost interest in Ryoma’s presence, his eyes riveting to the ceiling and his form relaxed. His face once again turns to a curious slate of blankness. This time Ryoma watches him: Atobe’s wiry yet toned arms, his long fingers, his eyes. He almost looks tired.  
“Aren’t you going to join your team?” he ventures out, and Atobe doesn’t look at him as he answers back cursorily.  
“Our team, I should say. And I will soon. Aren’t you heading back?”  
It feels funny, the way Atobe sometimes considers Ryoma in situations like these, when all the Hyotei regulars have been together for a good part of their school years and Ryoma was the outsider and even the former enemy to be vanquished. Ryoma had never accepted Hyotei as easily as he accepted Seigaku, now even as of now, when he won the nationals in the name of another school, not when he had been coddled and nursed upon by his teammates who have since warmed up to him and have accepted him. He wonders if he is too cold-hearted sometimes, too mindless in his pursuits.  
“I will,” he says uneasily.  
“Or,” Atobe says, his lazy smirk in place, “Could it be you’re enjoying my company better than Mukahi’s?”  
Ryoma chokes on his Ponta and coughs; Atobe’s eyes as trained back to him, his mouth a full smirk. He straightens up from his place in the counter and before Ryoma could protest, he gently thumps Ryoma’s back until his coughing subsides.  
“I—“Ryoma says, and tries again. “At least you don’t strangle me.”  
“Oh? And here I thought you would vehemently deny my claims,” Atobe says with much amusement. “Poor Mukahi. I could hear his declarations of affections all the way from here.”  
“You could have saved me, you know,” Ryoma says scathingly, “As captain.”  
“And deny Mukahi’s pent-up love towards you? Please,” Atobe waves a hand at Ryoma dismissively. “Captaincy comes with many duties but saving little brats from adoration isn’t one of them.”  
“I’m not little,” Ryoma snaps, and just like that, his irritation with Atobe is back in place, the grudge against Atobe that has been festering all week ever since the coach had announced the line-ups against Rikkai.  
Atobe contemplates him, his eyes narrowing a little but otherwise not showing any sign he caught on Ryoma’s irate tone. “No,” he agrees after a moment’s beat, “I suppose you’re not anymore.”  
The simple admission makes Ryoma bold enough to ask his next question that had been bugging him enough to find Atobe alone at an opportune time. “You didn’t sign yourself up for Singles One.”  
Atobe shrugs.  
“Why?”  
Atobe looks annoyed now, his eyes furrowed and his fingers tapping against the counter. He looks at Ryoma and fails to fix his eyes for long; his gaze traverses to the wall beyond him.  
“You wanted the spot,” he says, his calm voice not betraying his facial expression, “You told me so yourself that you would only play for Singles One.”  
“You said I had to earn it,” Ryoma shoots back.  
Atobe gives him a tight smile. “And you did. You never missed a win since then, did you? I thought that was enough. Really, Echizen, if you wanted praise from me you would do better to go back to Mukahi or Shishido. I’d hardly be the one to stroke your ego.”  
“I meant—“ Ryoma starts, stops. He scowls and tries again. “We didn’t play a match. I thought we would.”  
“Would you, now?” Atobe shrugs again and this time, Ryoma realizes, he does look tired. It wasn’t a trick of his imagination. “There are a lot of things you seem to expect of me, Echizen. Should I set the match date?”  
Ryoma is the one to narrow his eyes this time, his lips pressed tight. His throat constricts, although he doesn’t know why, possibly because—“Don’t you want to play me?” he asks, almost petulant, and he feels young again, too young and stupid. He hates it.  
That question gets a sharp bark from Atobe and Atobe looks at him almost incredulously but also with anew mirth. He even leans over to ruffle his hair. Ryoma almost dodges but refrains at the last minute. He doesn’t let his scowl go away, though.  
“Self-pity doesn’t become you,” Atobe says. “I think we both know the answer to that.” And Atobe’s fingers are awkward on Ryoma’s head; clearly, Atobe too, had expected Ryoma to duck away from him, but Ryoma is unexpectedly pliant under his hand. The fingers are cool as they rake his black locks rhythmically, and Atobe’s eyes burn, as they have not before. Ryoma stares into them, but this time, he is the one who looks away first.  
“Okay,” he says. He voice cracks, so he clears his throat and tries again. “Okay, then. Good.”  
“Is this match for next year’s captaincy?” Atobe inquires dryly, his hand soft, his own head warm from where Atobe is touching him.  
“No,” Ryoma says, almost with the same vehemence he showed earlier, “If you’re going to make me captain, I’m resigning.”  
“No need to make such drastic measures,” Atobe sighs, a long-suffering sigh that Ryoma suspects is staged, “I knew you would say that. I told the coach as such.” Atobe tilts his head. “You should thank me for that, by the way; he was most insistent about vouching for your leadership.”  
“Thank you, buchou,” Ryoma says, half in jest. But the way Atobe’s hand stills, the way his fingers lightly grasp wisps of Ryoma’s hair, Ryoma is suddenly unsure. Atobe’s eyes are insistent, boring into his own and it is almost making him uncomfortable. Perhaps he shouldn’t have mocked his captain title. He tries again. “I mean, thanks. Captain.” He tries it in English this time, thinking that the title would sound less like a snide drawl in his native tongue, but Atobe in unfazed by his second attempt, and Ryoma is still left uncomfortable and frustrated.  
“What?” Ryoma finally snipes, when Atobe’s eyes don’t leave him and his hand is still holding locks of Ryoma’s hair.  
Atobe responds to Ryoma’s snap then, a full smirk on his lips as he finally lets of Ryoma’s disheveled hair and flicks his forehead. “Just,” Atobe says, his voice very merry and dark, “thinking how I would miss you calling me captain.”  
Ryoma makes a face at that. “Don’t overdo it,” he says and Atobe chuckles.  
“I would, though.” And the strangest moment in the night comes, when Atobe’s fingers suddenly brush against Ryoma’s cheek and accidently still, or so Ryoma thinks, against his lips and stays there for a second. The moment disappears as soon as it comes, though, and Atobe flicks Ryoma’s forehead again, hard enough for Ryoma to scowl and place his own hand to rub off the small pain. “Do try to come and socialize once you’ve wasted all your health on that atrocious beverage. We could have that match sometime this month, before school starts.”  
“Right,” Ryoma says sulkily.  
Atobe turns to walk away. Before he does though, he gives Ryoma one last look and comments; “No wonder Tezuka took such a fancy to you.”  
Ryoma, still busy nursing his forehead, does not try to put too much thought into his reply and Atobe’s next words. “What?”  
“You grow on people, Echizen. Very much to my dismay.” And before Ryoma could reply to that, Atobe is gone, and he is left alone with five cans of unopened Fanta.


End file.
